


The Art of Creating

by softkaimin



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, I Tried to Keep Reader As Gender Neutral As Possible, Kim Taehyung | V & Min Yoongi | Suga are Best Friends, Light Angst, M/M, Min Yoongi | Suga Needs a Hug, Please Forgive Any Pronoun Slip Up, Sad Min Yoongi | Suga, Suga Doesn't Appear Until the Second Chapter, Who is Y/N?, i don't know her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softkaimin/pseuds/softkaimin
Summary: In the tales of the few and far between, it is said that people who dream of their soulmate are prophesied to have the strongest and most unbreakable relationships. An extraordinary gift that allows you to see the person who you are meant to spend the rest of your life with in their happiest moments, however, due to its scarcity, it has been written off as nothing more than a folklore. A nice story to tell your children during bedtime so the hope of a soulmate never dwindles in their hearts. But, unbeknownst to the world, the phenomenon is as true as the day is long. The only stipulation is that one must be awake while the other is asleep for it to work.An invitation to showcase your artwork in South Korea make your dreams a reality in more ways than one. You are one of the few lucky ones to experience an undoubtedly wonderful rarity.
Relationships: Kim Taehyung | V/Min Yoongi | Suga, Min Yoongi | Suga & Reader, Min Yoongi | Suga & You, Min Yoongi | Suga/Reader, Min Yoongi | Suga/You
Kudos: 13





	The Art of Creating

“I cannot believe you stayed all night again.” The heavy door of the storefront shut with a thud as the gruff voice of your college art professor began scolding you for the nth time. “Your health will deteriorate before you finish that painting of yours if you keep this up.”

You ignored him and chewed on the end of your paintbrush, staring down the unfinished painting that sat tauntingly still on the easel in front of you. It was embarrassing at how little progress you were making, and having the man who taught to reach your full potential witness your artist block was beginning to wear your confidence. You didn’t want him to second guess his decision of having chosen you for the _Up-and-Coming Artists_ exhibition next week, but how could he not when even you were beginning to doubt yourself.

You sighed, taking one last glance at the portrait before tossing your paintbrush into the bowl of murky water beside you, unbothered by the splatter of droplets that stained your jeans. “I have one week to finish this,” you finally spoke, holding up your index finger to emphasize the frustration at the amount of time you wasted only staring instead of actually creating.

Your invitation to showcase in South Korea came in the form of a phone call two months ago while you were working in The States. They told you that among a great number of candidates they had considered, you came with the highest recommendation from a well known and well respected artist. It was an opportunity of a lifetime and, without needing to hear the fine details of the event, you agreed with an enthusiastic squeal and hung up the phone to immediately begin planning out your pieces. You started and finished them in record time, and – if you had any say in the matter – they were some of your best work to date.

Your main piece, the statement of your entire collection, was a different story however.

It was a breeze in the beginning. Every morning, almost immediately, you would run over to the cloth covered corner of your living room where you had set up your workspace and plop yourself on the wooden stool. You’d pick up a clean paintbrush and dip the bristles into a mix of colors, gently dragging them across the blank canvases with ease as though your hand could already see the finished painting underneath all the blinding white. 

Some pieces weren’t as clear as the others but were more like a feeling, almost like you could feel the beat of a soft melody radiating off them if you stared just long enough. They were beautiful and intricate works of art, and you thought that for the central piece you would paint the thing that was most beautiful to you. The thing that was the true inspiration for your work, though not really a thing, but actually a person. 

The only problem was that you had no idea who he was, or even what he looked like. The only thing you really knew about this person was that he would appear to you in your dreams every night, like he was watching and creating right alongside you.

Amidst the incredible progress you were making on your collection, your professor asked you to fly to Seoul so the two of you could set up early before d-day of the show. It seemed like a plausible idea at the time, but had you known as soon you landed _he_ would stop coming to you, you would’ve never gone before getting one more good look at him. 

It was like he had vanished into thin air. Like your mind had been playing a cruel joke on you for the past year, and when you needed your muse the most he faded into the unreachable depths of your mind. 

It was agony trying to piece together the foggy and shattered bits of him. Nothing made sense. Nothing… except… 

There was one thing you could recall in detail, despite your feeble memory. A gentle vibration, like humming, that always seemed to encase him like an aura. You never heard his voice, but you were certain the sound came from him. lt was a soothing melody, only about seven seconds long, but it was just enough to nudge you a tiny bit toward the finish line. Or at least enough to keep you sane until you figured out what to do about your mental block. 

You tried everything. Fortune telling, lucid dreaming, meditation. You even considered a quick high to transcend the mental barrier, but you decided against it. In the end, your attempts were in vain, because nothing brought him back.

He was gone, and so was your motivation. A once in a lifetime chance, and it was spilling right out of your hands. You had no way to salvage it in the limited time you had left, and it was beginning to feel futile.

You hadn’t noticed your professor walk into your bubble of self-pity until you saw his finger inching toward the half-painted portrait. He pointed and hummed quietly, inspecting the painting inch by inch, stroke by stroke before coming to his final conclusion. “You haven’t made a single dent since you got here.” It was a rather obvious conclusion, but it was one that hurt to hear aloud. Just another reminder of your incompetence. “It’s _literally_ the exact same as when you first brought it in.”

You sighed and swiveled in the fancy metal stool he let you borrow from his art studio. “I know,” you mumbled.

He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose with his index finger and pressed his thumb to his bottom lip, trying to measure his words carefully before his pent-up frustration threatened to spill out. The wheels in his mind turned furiously, searching and searching, but there was really only one thing left to say. “Listen, I know you’ve explained the importance to me a thousand times, but how amazing is this guy really if you can’t even remember what he looks like?”

You rolled your eyes, not caring whether your professor saw the rude response to his rather logical doubt.

“I’m just saying,” he defended. “It’s not very muse-like of him to just disappear like that without a warning _and_ so close to the opening date? Tsk. You should consider leaving him and finding you a new man.” He snapped his fingers, hoping to elicit a smile out of you but he could see by the scowl on your face, you were not amused. 

“… oh, so you’re making fun of me now...You know what they call that? Bullying.”

Your professor snorted and wandered toward the back of the shop where he kept his supplies, leaving you to fester in your own pity party for a few minutes. He picked up his large canvas portfolio and began to rummage through it in search for a portrait he’d done a while back. He would never let you know it, but your artistic slump concerned him greatly. He was panicking, but he knew you were too, more-so than him, so he forced himself to keep it together as your mentor for your sake. He repeatedly told himself that choosing you for the exhibition wasn’t a mistake. You had great skill and unmatched talent. Choosing you wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t.

God, he really hoped it wasn’t.

He pulled out a large piece of bristol paper from the messy pile he’d made and tucked it under his arm, quickly shoving his other works back into his portfolio. He walked back to where you were now resting your head on the paint stained work table, and he clapped his hands together loudly, eliciting an annoyed groan from you. “No time for that anymore. Get up. There’re only days- _days_ left until you present to the public.” 

You propped your elbows on the table, reluctantly lifting your head to rest in your hands. “Yeah, days until my debut as an artist is toppled by my incapabilities. Days until the only thing I will be known for is being the flop who dirtied your otherwise impeccable reputation as an artist.” You groaned obnoxiously loud, and spun to face your professor who was standing behind you, clearly unmoved by your troubles. “Can’t we just tell the curators that my flight lost all of my paintings and sent them to another country or something? Anything to spare myself the humiliation.” 

“No.” His response was curt, deciding not to waste anymore time humoring your pity party. He placed his own artwork on the table beside you, his eyes quickly retracing it as he remembered the day when he first drew it. 

“My husband,” he said. “I drew it the day we met, 38 years ago.” You picked up the piece with gentle hands, quietly admiring the amount of detail your professor was able to do using only charcoal, or at least you assumed charcoal from the many smudges that decorated the edges of the paper. “It’s not the original,” he continued. “I had that one framed when he passed away, this one is just one of a hundred that I keep with me for whenever I miss him.” 

“He is quite a handsome man.” You already knew of your professor's late husband, as it wasn’t a part of himself that he kept secret. He talked about him often in his class, sharing a wholesome story of his husband’s reaction to the respective piece his class was analyzing that day. It wasn’t until halfway through the semester that you deduced your professor had chosen to study only his husband’s favorite artworks after his passing. 

Each and every piece he presented with such enthusiasm that he had his whole class convinced they were the most life changing pieces they would ever lay their eyes on. Most of your classmates just assumed that it was his passion for art that drove him, but you knew it was more than that. It was his way of paying homage to the love of his life. For his husband to be remembered by the many students who studied under himself every time they saw those artworks. However, despite the dozens of anecdotes your professor shared with you of them, this was the first time you ever saw what he actually looked like. 

“That he is,” your professor said, chuckling to himself. “He was clueless about anything art when I first met him, but he always did his best to humor me whenever I dragged him to an exhibition. He had such a different way of interpreting art, ways that I would have never understood if it hadn’t been for him... gosh, if he were here right now I’m certain he would tell me that the reason I let you go on this long without making any progress is because I understand how you feel.”

You looked up at your professor, eyebrows raised as though you were telling him to continue because you had no idea what he was talking about. 

He laughed at your wide-eyed expression, and pointed at the drawing in your hands. “This is probably the hundredth time I’ve redrawn that picture of him.” He pulled his hand back and placed it inside the front pocket of his pants, and sighed deeply. “When I had the original portrait framed, everytime I left my house I felt like I was missing something, like I had forgotten something important at home. I went on like that for days, and it wasn’t until I had the sudden urge to just pull out the portrait to stare at it when I figured out that _that_ ,” he said, pointing that the portrait in your hands, “was what was missing. So, of course, I did the sane thing and went home that day and drew it from scratch, beginning to end, the exact same picture. And it was the first time I felt some kind of stability after his death… I guess over time I just became addicted to drawing him, like a part of me was afraid-”

“Afraid of forgetting what he looks like,” you interrupted. “Yeah, I know the feeling all too well.” You set the drawing down in front of you, staring straight ahead at the empty wall that had been marked off with a single blue sticky note with your name on it. It was hard to imagine anything of yours hanging there for others to admire. Of course, your other paintings were beautiful, but you strived to have more than just pretty paintings. You wanted to tell a story, one that could only be read when every single piece was done and accounted for. But your story was beginning to wither and fade, so much that you forgot about it just long enough to allow yourself the idea of using your professor’s late husband’s face on your art. It was a fleeting consideration, and it bothered you. 

“Thank you for the offer, but I can’t use his face… I couldn’t in good conscience present this as my own,” you said, handing back the drawing to your professor respectfully. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be the same picture, you would change it to fit your own painting.”

You shook your head, rolling your chair back toward the easel where your work sat. You picked up the paintbrush from the bowl of water, gently patting the bristles dry on your jeans. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be a feeling that I created on my own, it would be yours. It would be as though I stopped telling my story and began telling another one.” You rubbed your eye, roughly scratching the itch that . “I have to be able to finish this on my own. I can finish this. Tonight… I _will_ finish this damn portrait.” It was more so a promise to yourself rather than to your professor, and he silently commended your determination as he left you to work.

You continued painting despite feeling lost and unstable, using the frustration you held toward yourself to drive you to the end. It was a battle with your perfectionism, but you toughed it out through curses and tears. And when it was done, you went home without giving it another glance, discouragement weighing heavily on your shoulders.

When d-day for the exhibition finally rolled around, you sullenly dragged your feet into the newly cleaned store front. Your paintings had been hung last night, each accompanied by a short description printed on a small white sheet of paper. Your image and name were stenciled onto the wall adjacent to your collection, and you couldn’t help but scrutinize the bio you gave the curators to print. It was choppy, unoriginal, and vague compared to the others, but there nothing you could do about it now. You had run out of time.

The nerves of your fellow presenters were on edge and they couldn’t for the life of them stop complimenting each other’s works, much to your annoyance. They were giddy and excited and nervous, and a part of you wished you could say the same for yourself. 

You stood near the back wall, clad in the most expensive and elegant outfit you owned, the brand new shoes you bought, worth an entire week’s paycheck, pinching at your achilles heel. Nothing about this event felt right to you. You wanted to tear down your art, destroy the paintings with an ax and present it as your debut/retirement. Another fleeting, yet alluring consideration, but thankfully your professor convinced you to keep your sanity. “If you hate it that much, then learn from it and do better,” was all he said to you. 

You’d been the last of four to turn in your paintings, so you had no say in where your art would be hung and the wall you had chosen before was given to another artist. You were placed in the second room on the leftmost wall, which, according to the other artist who also occupied the second room, was because no one ever walked to the left first. It was a roundabout way of telling you that they were ahead of you. You couldn’t bring yourself to care enough, in fact, you hoped the people would stop at her part of the exhibition and leave your wall unseen, as it should be. 

Your professor walked out of the maintenance room, an excited look in his eyes as he clapped his hands to gather everyone’s attention. He was quickly followed by three other well-known artists, ones you recognized as being the sponsors of your fellow presenters. 

“We are about five minutes away from opening the doors to the public. We just wanted to congratulate the four of you on a job well done, it has been an honour to watch you grow into the talented artists you are, and we hope you continue to grow and become world renowned artists, even better than ourselves.” Your professor motioned to himself and his colleagues, and the room burst into laughter. You didn’t get the joke.

“Please, sir,” spoke the youngest girl in the room. She was short, even in the high heels she wore, and her large round glasses took up her entire face. Her outfit was loud, and you gathered by the similarities to her painting she had designed the print for her dress. It was not your style, but you couldn’t deny her work was rather astonishing. “It should be us who are honoured to have been taught by you. I’m confident in saying that I can speak for the four of us when I say we are, and forever will be, grateful to all of you for sponsoring us to present in this exhibition. Thank you for believing in us.” 

_Ugh, she’s well spoken too_ , you internally groaned. You caught your professor glaring at you as though he could hear your rude thoughts, and out of instinct you quickly straightened your back, averting your gaze. 

“Well, how can we possibly top that. Now if you will, please stand here so we may begin.” 

The four of you walked to the middle of the first room, and bowed as your fates as professional artists stood just beyond the double doors. Your fate in the form of someone who you longed to see again.


End file.
